


Elain

by Lukra (49percentchanceofbees)



Category: Flight Rising
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 14:32:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16874661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/49percentchanceofbees/pseuds/Lukra
Summary: The history of the shapeshifter Elain and her feud with the priest Barholme.





	1. Chapter 1

As ever, Delemont was heralded by screaming.

Aridatha was reading a rather verbose memo from Cypress on the newspaper’s progress when she first noticed the sound. By the time she thought to check where it was coming from, it had risen from distant commotion to strident screeching in the middle of the lair.

“What the Shade is going on?” Aridatha yelled, throwing herself from her own quarters to the ground. The noise seemed to be coming from a bundle of feathers wrapped in a net, over which stood Delemont, victorious, and Geras, rather less so.

“I found a weird bird,” Delemont said, prodding the bundle with a talon. “Check it out.”

Aridatha looked at Geras, who wore a rather helpless expression. “Why is it _so loud_?”

“I’m trying,” Geras said. Luna, drawn by the commotion, leaned in over the net and spoke to it, rather sharply, in Harpy. This had the desired effect: the cries stopped and the bundle lay still, quivering slightly. The newfound silence allowed Aridatha to hear several sighs of relief.

Geras nudged Delemont. “You haven’t even gotten to the interesting bit. It was a centaur when we caught it.”

Aridatha blinked. “You found a shape-shifter?”

“Yes, and ‘it’ isn’t very happy about it,” came a clear voice speaking in Common from the net. “You hurt my friends! Mira was – let me out of this.”

“Do we count this one in the hunting tallies as a centaur or a harpy?” Delemont asked, ignoring his prisoner. “Or can I count it twice?”

“Whatever you decide, I ask that you do it quietly,” said Bartos, who had picked his way across the stream from his library. “Some of us are trying to read.”

“And _some of us_ are still in nets,” said the shape-shifter, rather acerbically.

“Geras,” Aridatha said, and the guardian nodded and began to untangle the net. The unassigned familiars, beast and beast-folk, watched from their enclave across the river. They were rather more inclined to observe the clan’s affairs now that they were no longer stuffed into an isolated cave – something that Aridatha had already had complaints about, from Luna, to which her defense was that she hadn’t been aware of the problem either until the two guardians had brought it to light.

Kelsus jumped to the ground from his usual perch on Geras’ head and was helping with the knots, his smaller claws unraveling those Geras’ could not. Gradually, the creature was unbounded, and it stood up and shifted, flesh twisting and turning fluid in a rather nauseating way, until a delicate, deer-like centaur stood in the center of a watching circle of dragons, staring at them with golden eyes.

“I’ve never seen a centaur like that before,” Aridatha said.

“You’re not exactly welcoming.” The centaur bent down and picked up the harpy mask that had fallen from its face as it changed. “We were quietly minding our own business when you jumped out and attacked us.”

Aridatha looked at Geras. Geras looked at Delemont. Delemont did not notice, as he was busy snacking on something he’d carried in tucked under his wing.

“Where were you, exactly?” Luna prompted, more to Geras than the centaur. “I’ve given you the treaty maps, yes?”

“Yes, thank you.” Geras turned to the centaur. “We’re perfectly willing to ransom you back to your clan. As for your friends, it was – ”

“Good hunting,” Delemont interjected. He bared his teeth in a snarl. “I remember when there weren’t all these stupid rules about where you could take prey and what you could hurt – ”

“Delemont,” Aridatha snapped, talons clicking on her pearl. “Thank you for your contribution. We are all appropriately in awe of your hunting prowess. Now please go away.”

With a snort, the mirror departed, clambering up the side of a tree-building into his own quarters.

“It was a fair fight, I meant to say, in contested territory.” Geras tried a faint smile at the centaur. “I’m sure your friends will have patched themselves up. If they didn’t want to fight, they should have surrendered.”

“Or maybe they shouldn’t have dared to exist in dragon-infested territory at all, right?” The centaur sounded bitter.

“Your clan – ” Geras began.

“I don’t have a clan,” the centaur said. Aridatha sighed and was about to turn away, leaving the matter for Geras and Luna to figure out, when the creature’s form went liquid again, shuddering and writhing, and then it was a skydancer.

“You could have told us you were a dragon!” Aridatha said.

“What difference does it make?” the skydancer said, angrily. She was small, not much larger than Aridatha herself, and something in her thin wrists and swirled fur strongly recalled the centaur that had stood there a moment ago.

“It makes all the difference in the world.” Aridatha rubbed her chin with a claw, trying to figure out what this revelation changed. They had not captured a beastclan warrior, then, who might be taken during the ordinary course of interspecies hostilities – they’d grabbed another dragon whose clan might soon demand an explanation. Aridatha would have to let Lioska know they might be in danger … But the shape-shifter said she had no clan …

“What’s your name?” Geras asked gently. “Where did you learn to shape-shift?”

“My father taught me.” The skydancer looked between Geras and Luna, two large dragons encircling her. Then she bowed her head and slid into centaur form again. “My name is Elain.”

“Why did your father teach you … ?” Geras broke off, looking at Luna in confusion. “Why do you … ?”

“I like this form better,” Elain said, her brittle voice a dare to question why. Aridatha stared at the centaur. Why would anyone, given the choice between being a dragon and a scrawny deer-critter, choose the latter?

“I’ve read quite a bit about shape-shifting,” Bartos noted, with the same distant interest he used for everything. “Apparently in some parts of Sornieth there are entire clans who live out their lives in two-legged form, creating vast cities, teeming with life. They enjoy the additional dexterity, as I understand it, and their more even size distribution makes construction easier.”

Well, they’d had trouble building shelters large enough for their imperials already – Aridatha supposed she could see how it’d be easier to house smaller creatures. But Elain was not a large dragon; centaur form cut her size in half, maybe. Something about the idea just seemed so …

“I would like to study you, if you don’t mind,” Bartos told Elain. The centaur stepped back, almost tripping over Geras’ tail. “Or, rather, I would like you to teach me about your magic. It is a rather difficult enchantment, as I understand, with much room for variety, creative flair, or error.”

“I – I …”

“Do you know the centaur tongue?” Geras said. “Could you teach me? Luna’s started me on Harpy and Fee on Serthis but we’re having some trouble getting through to the centaurs among the hoard.”

“I – I speak many languages.”

“I’d like in on those language lessons,” Bartos added, moving in closer to Elain and Geras. “I’ve acquired several scrolls that need translations, not to mention some books too small for me to feasibly read.”

“Please allow us to apologize for the unpleasantness of our initial meeting,” Aridatha said, leaning in over Bartos’ shoulder. “We are a curious clan. We know so little of you and your kin, and we’d like to learn more, if you don’t mind staying with us a while.”

“Oh, I – uh – sure.”


	2. Chapter 2

For something so small, Elain’s harpy form certainly had a strident voice. Her shouting roused Geras from an afternoon nap, just when everything seemed to be going so well. Sighing, Geras got to her feet. Technically, Elain wasn’t a familiar, but since she spent so much time in beastclan form – and apparently preferred the beast-folk’s company to that of her fellow dragons – Geras felt responsible for her.

Geras found Elain standing in the little beastclan camp she’d helped build, facing off against a longneck. No, not the longneck – it was the beast’s burden that drew Elain’s ire. The silver fae, Barholme, perched on a satin pillow carried by the longneck.

“What’s wrong?” Geras said. Elain was in harpy form, feathers ruffled. Several other harpies and centaurs – _real_ harpies and centaurs – watched the scene, although they looked away when Geras caught them looking.

“Elain should be stoned to death,” said Barholme.

“I’m sorry?” Geras thought she must have heard him wrong.

“Shape-shifting is blasphemy,” the fae said. He ought to have sounded furious, full of religious fervor, but no: his tone was as flat as ever. “She rejects the form the gods shaped for her, for us. She consorts with godless beasts, dirtying her entire race. Our entire race. She must repent or die.”

“Um,” Geras said, filled with the conviction that she did not have enough authority for this discussion. And Kelsus wasn’t even here to explain fae body language to her.

Elain darted forward and grabbed the longneck’s shoulders, shaking the creature as a startled Barholme tumbled off his cushion and caught himself in the air. “What have you done to her? You’ve got her magicked to the eyeballs! She’s not a puppet for you to just – ”

“Wait,” Geras said, gently nudging Elain away from the longneck. “Can we take this one thing at a time? Barholme, have you discussed your … concerns … with Aridatha? She’s in charge.”

“Aridatha said she would look into the matter,” Barholme said. “I believe she was putting me off.”

“So you came here to personally harass me,” Elain snapped. “I’m glad! Nobody else was going to tell me, apparently!”

“Elain, I don’t think that’s … I didn’t hear anything of this either. I’m sure Aridatha doesn’t intend to take any action without consulting you.”

“Aridatha is a Lightning dragon,” Barholme said.

“Yes?” Geras had absolutely no idea where he was going with that statement.

“The Stormcatcher is the Arcanist’s natural rival.”

“Uh, what?”

Barholme clung to a low-hanging branch, head head twisted around on his long neck. “I would expect Aridatha to follow the central tenets of the Eleven, but not my lord’s specifically. There are many Light and Lightning dragons in this clan – too many.”

“Why is it too many, exactly?” Geras said.

“Nature is scarcely any better, and Lioska has Aridatha’s ear.” Barholme’s claws twitched. “For an Arcane clan, we have gone terribly astray.”

Geras decided to stop asking for clarification, since each of Barholme’s answers only confused her more. Instead, she stepped forward, putting her considerable bulk between Barholme and Elain. “Barholme, if you have a problem with Elain, you’re going to need to take it up somewhere else. You’re upsetting the familiars.”

That was not a lie: Geras could see nearly half of the sentient beasts watching them. The longnecks were whispering, and she didn’t speak Longneck. Geras’ own familiar, Fee, leaned against the fence, ostensibly paying attention only to her own hair. More likely she was noting the rumors that passed among the beast-folk in several languages. Geras was not sure, exactly, whether Fee’s loyalties lay with her people or her dragon – but Geras’ desires usually aligned with the Serthis’ anyway.

“He’s upsetting me,” Elain said. Her body shuddered, wings lifting up along her back, short nubby arms growing from her chest. Geras looked away; she found the shape-shifter’s transformations rather disturbing, and Elain didn’t like to be observed at that vulnerable moment, either. By the time Geras’ gaze returned to her, Elain was back in centaur form. She had trouble holding her beastclan forms very long – but she spent as little time as she could in her own natural shape. “That longneck …”

“Elain?” Geras said, breaking her own no-more-questions rule, which had barely lasted five minutes.

“She’s bewitched!” Elain said, putting an arm around the shoulders of Barholme’s familiar. The longneck had not moved since Barholme’d flown away; she still held the cushion on which the fae had perched stiffly out in front of her. “Some kind of mind control – he’s turned a proud hunter into a soulless puppet. And then he has the nerve to parade her in front of us like he’s proud of what he’s done!”

“I am proud of what I’ve done,” Barholme said. The longneck moved, rather jerkily, to approach him, and he dropped back down onto the cushion. “It was a difficult enchantment to master and requires skill to maintain. A spell well-cast shows devotion to the Arcanist.”

With a wordless snarl, Elain lunged at him, shedding her centaur form as she did. Dragon-Elain’s claws tore at the air as Geras hurried to gently restrain her.

“Barholme, go away,” Geras said, with all the authority she could muster. She was getting better at it, she thought. “Elain, you and Barholme will have to take up your dispute elsewhere, with other mediators. I suggest you both speak to Aridatha about your problems with each other.”

“He wants me dead!” Elain cried, a harpy again, slipping between Geras’ claws and reaching for Barholme’s familiar. “You can’t let him do this!”

“You will be perfectly safe here, I promise you,” Geras said, giving Barholme what she hoped was an intimidating look. “Barholme understands that to harm a guest would have him stricken from the clan and driven from our lands.”

“ ‘Guest,’” Barholme muttered.

“But he can harm a longneck and that’s fine, isn’t it?” Elain said bitterly.

Geras looked at the creature. Accusations of mind control aside, it looked healthy, uninjured and well kept. She wasn’t sure if her role as beast-keeper gave her the jurisdiction to interfere between Barholme and his familiar. “I’ll bring the subject up with Aridatha. If we find that Barholme mistreats his familiar, it’ll be removed from his custody.”

With a frustrated shriek, Elain threw herself into the air and disappeared into one of the harpy nests on the ridge. Geras was too large to follow her there; instead she watched the beast-folk turn away, murmuring. They didn’t seem much happier with the outcome of the discussion than Elain was. Geras wondered how many of them, besides Fee, spoke Common and had followed the discussion. Perhaps she was imagining it, but the longnecks seemed particularly ill at ease.

By the time Geras turned back to Barholme, his familiar had carried him away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Acrux attempts to speak to Telyn about her treatment of their children, particularly Arbalest. However, he is sidetracked by portents of Elain’s future and conflict with Barholme.

“You nested with Iburel while I was gone,” Acrux said. It was not an accusation, simply a statement of fact.

“Baudin has established themselves quite well, I believe, and I yet have hopes for Idwallon.” Telyn turned over a page of the book she was reading with a single delicate talon. “I am disappointed by the news from Karal, however. She has gone to serve the Lightweaver.”

That was news to Acrux, but he didn’t flinch. Taking one’s place at a god’s side was a great honor, and Acrux could not regret his daughter’s departure to support the god of his own birth. But Telyn had expected great things from their firstborn. Apparently her powers of prophecy had not permitted her to glimpse Karal’s fate.

“I noticed that Arbalest left the clan in quite a hurry.”

“On the contrary,” Telyn said. “He was hanging around for ages.”

In Acrux’s mind rather than his ears, Telyn’s voice hissed, _If you have something to say, say it; stop this dancing around._ Acrux wondered if his mate knew what she’d transmitted. Most dragons were not aware of the secrets they whispered into Acrux’s skull, but Telyn was a powerful psychic; if anyone could control the voices, it’d be her. Actually, if anyone controlled the voices, it was Frip, from whom Acrux had only ever heard an admonition against eavesdropping. But Telyn was the second most likely dragon to exert influence over Acrux’s gifts. And Acrux could not forget that Telyn and Frip were friends, too.

“I see that Barholme will prove to be quite the troublemaker.” Telyn turned another page, her tone light and conversational. “I have scarcely seen so poor an end for one of our clan-mates – though I still count it unlikely, Aridatha being rather sensible.”

Acrux frowned. “Whose end would that be? Barholme’s?”

“There are a few futures in which Lioska has him killed,” Telyn said, unbothered. “And far more in which he bests Lioska’s assassins and comes for her next. But I was referring to Elain, actually.”

“So you consider Elain one of our clan-mates?” Acrux was letting Telyn distract him from his original topic of their expectations for their children. But she did not share her predictions often, even with Acrux, especially when they were dire. If she would not raise a claw to aid those whose futures she saw, then Acrux would have to get as much of those futures out of her as he could.

“Oh, yes.” Another page turned. “It is a forgone conclusion: Elain will not find us easy to leave. Especially as she gains traction herself. So far she has made little effort to proselytize, but we will see how things go down at the Chronicle. She will certainly have Cypress, Frip – though Frip will not take sides, not when it matters – perhaps Illyan, Luna, and likely Aridatha herself. Personally, I find the exercise distasteful, but that doesn’t mean it should be outlawed.”

Acrux held back a sigh. As a psychic himself, he was used to interpreting vague and enigmatic pronouncements. He could follow Telyn’s speech well enough, even if he didn’t understand all her references. But he didn’t know what it meant.

“Why would Elain proselytize?” he asked. “She seems scarcely interested in dragons.”

“She isn’t, but we are.” Telyn paused, and Acrux heard her voice, _Many clans will only …_ and then his own, _Wildclaws have two legs. An echo of what almost was_ , Telyn whispered. “This is more Frip’s domain than mine. You should ask her.”

“I know how well asking Frip with avail me,” Acrux said, a tad bitterly. Frip could be even more enigmatic than Telyn. One at a time – he’d have to tease information from them one at a time. “What have you seen of Elain’s future?”

“You should know Barholme would have her killed.” Telyn tapped a page in her book with a claw, making a hollow sound.

“Aridatha won’t allow that.”

“As I said: it’s unlikely.” Telyn smiled a small and secret smile. “He will have Zarya on his side, however. She would so like to dissect a shape-shifter. I doubt the two of them will prevail, not once you’ve got your back up over it – which you will now, I suppose. You can try to head them off if you wish. It probably won’t make a difference.”

Acrux rubbed his eyes with a claw. The politics made sense. He could see how Barholme and Zarya might come to an understanding over what was to be done with Elain. And of course the quickest way to get Acrux to stand against something was to tell him Zarya wanted it. Aridatha herself had recruited the imperials first, after all.

“That’s enough for now, I believe.” Telyn closed her book. “Be sure to ask Frip about the Shade, dear. I believe you’ll find it edifying.”

Acrux turned to Telyn, frowning. “I’m still not – I came to you to talk about our children.”

“A moot point,” Telyn said. “That project is over.”

And she walked out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barholme attempts to take a new familiar, but Elain, once again, takes offense at his use of mind control on captive beastclans. As beast-keeper, Geras must moderate the resulting conflict.

Elain first knew something was wrong when the beastclan familiars began crowding around her. She was in one of the centaur shelters, and it was not unusual for the longnecks to wander in and out, but when the serthis and harpies began to press in, Elain knew something was going on.

“What’s wrong?” she said, far too surrounded by muscle-bound centaurs to evaluate the situation outside herself.

“That one’s here again,” one of the serthis hissed.

“The silver mage,” added a longneck.

“Oh,” Elain said. “Let me through.”

The crowd parted before her, and Elain made her way out into the enclosed village. Outside the fence, Geras was on her feet, one foreclaw supporting a fainting longneck. Elain recognized that particular longneck.

“Where is he?” she said, sliding from centaur to harpy form with scarcely a stop in dragon. Her harpy form was more martial and, importantly, louder.

“Barholme, you’re upsetting – ” Geras’ head drew back on her long neck as the fae darted around her and flew over the enclosure. Only a handful of beast-folk remained outdoors. The handful of maren had withdrawn to the bottom of the pool under the waterfall, where Barholme could not reach them; the others, talonok to harpy to serthis, were packed into the huts. There was not room enough for all of them. “Barholme! I thought you were going to talk to Aridatha about this!”

“I should not require special permission to take advantage of my own clan’s resources,” Barholme said, hanging from a tree.

“ ‘Taking advantage’ – is that what you call it? I thought I told you not to come back here!” Elain skittered up Geras’ leg and leapt into the air, flitting towards the fae – until her limbs and magic together failed her, and she hung in the air, a dragon again, completely stilled below the neck. Barholme twisted a claw, and she rotated slowly before him.

“Barholme,” Geras said, her voice taking on a new growling gravitas. “Release Elain at once.”

Barholme’s head tilted. “She attacked me.”

Geras reached up and plucked Elain out of the air, gently lowering the smaller dragon to the ground. “That’s not what happened and you know it. Barholme, I did ask you to avoid this area – you’re only making my job more difficult, stirring up the beasts. Why are you here?”

“I want a new familiar.”

“Over my dead body!” Elain shrieked.

Barholme looked at her with empty pink eyes, reflecting the little false stars in the branches. “That would be my preference as well.”

“No one is dying today,” Geras said, pulling Elain towards her, sheltering the skydancer under her wings. If only she had half so much concern for the creatures under her care … “I told you, you need to take this up with Aridatha.”

“Do I not have the right to take a familiar, as the rest of the clan does?”

“Elain has raised some valid questions about your treatment of your familiar.” Geras looked at the longneck resting against her claw, prodded her a little. She didn’t move, remaining stunned – practically poleaxed.

Barholme landed on the fence, near Geras’ familiar, Fee, who hadn’t moved with the rest of the serthis and remaining leaning against the barrier. Perhaps Fee trusted that her personal connection with the guardian would protect her. For a moment Barholme was still, only his tail lashing.

“I wish for my familiars to perform some basic tasks in my service. Is that too much to ask?”

“When you’re enchanting them – ” Elain began.

“I would be happy to place my skills at the disposal of the rest of my clan.” Barholme turned to look at Fee, who didn’t so much as flinch, just regarded the fae steadily. “You don’t think the beasts should have some use besides sitting here growing fat on our feed?”

“No one asked for your help, Barholme.” Geras moved uneasily, one claw reaching for Fee. “Now you’re bothering me as well as Elain and the familiars. Get out.”

For a long moment Barholme looked at Geras. Then he waved a talon, and the longneck he’d brought straightened. She was still holding a silk pillow, and on it Barholme landed. “Very well.”

“Wait!” Elain said. Her limbs were hers again; she darted forward. “You can’t – ”

Barholme whirled on her. “I shall have either my new familiar or my old one; you have nothing to say to me, beast-lover.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” Elain snarled.

“I told you,” Geras said, putting a talon between them, “you need to have this conversation with Aridatha, not me.”

“Then which is it?” Barholme turned to Geras. “May I have a new familiar, or must I take the old?”

“Why don’t you take one of the unspeaking familiars?” Geras said, gesturing towards the pens full of gyres and stranglers, zeebas and cave jewels. Barholme turned and looked over them, eyes narrowed, frills drawn close to his head.

“My magic works best on more intelligent creatures.”

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to make do till Aridatha rules on the matter,” Geras said firmly.

For a long moment Barholme looked at Geras, as if he perhaps thought he could stare her down. It didn’t work: the guardian met his gaze squarely. At last, he said, “Very well,” going to the pens.

Sliding around Geras’ claw, Elain went to Barholme’s longneck, who looked bewildered and dazed. As a centaur, Elain put an arm around the hunter’s shoulder and took the pillow from her. Leading the longneck into the shelters, Elain glared after Barholme. She would have to talk to Aridatha, then, though she would have preferred to take the matter into her own hands.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zarya offers Barholme aid in his religious crusade to see Elain executed for the sin of taking beastclan form.

“Barholme!” Zarya called into the trees. “Can you spare a moment of your holiness to discuss a plan of mutual benefit?”

The fae dropped onto a branch in front of her, his head twisting on his long neck to examine her. “What interest do we share?”

“Elain.”

“Ah.” Barholme’s fins flared. “The sinner.”

“The shape-shifter.” Zarya nodded. “I hear you have a bit of a disagreement with her.”

“That creature pollutes the form and name of dragon, mocking the gods’ will and consorting with filthy mud-grubbing beasts.”

“Yes, yes.” Zarya waved a claw. “The theology is not my priority.”

Barholme blinked, his fins twitching. Likely that denial did not please him, since he showed little interest in anything _but_ theology. “Then why do you seek my counsel?”

“I have a more … physical interest in Elain. Visceral, you might say. I’d prefer ‘scholarly.’” Zarya grinned. “I want to know how that whole shape-shifting deal works. And, as you may be aware, my favorite path to earning knowledge involves knives.”

That seemed to get Barholme’s attention. He turned his head again, always with his eyes fixed on Zarya, as if he hoped to read her intention in her face or body. It would be rare to find a fae who could make sense of a mirror’s lean four-eyed countenance, but the regard was still rather unsettling. Or it would have been unsettling, had Zarya held the slightest inclination to worry about others’ intentions – but she had long since known herself among the most unscrupulous dragons in this little clan, and certainly the most brutal. Barholme might well have his own unsounded depths of zealotry and cruelty, but they did not frighten Zarya.

“You seek to punish Elain for her transgressions?” the fae asked.

“My motives are different, but if you want her dead, I’m with you, as long as I get the body after.”  Picking at one of the bloody bandages on her claws, which contained absolutely none of her own ichor, Zarya glanced coyly at Barholme. “In fact, I’d be happy to serve as executioner, assuming you have no issue with Elain departing from this world slowly and painfully. My studies would be more effective if I were to observe her in action … Do you know what a vivisection is?”

“I do.” Barholme tilted his head thoughtfully. “A harsh punishment for her crime, and a certain deterrent to those who would follow in her footsteps … What exactly do you mean by ‘with me’? How do you intend to effect this sentence?”

“I have some influence with Aridatha – I was one of the first dragons whose support she sought in our previous clan-wide debate.” Zarya preened delicately at the feathers that hung from her wings. “You’ll find me honest enough to admit that my say-so alone will not tip the balance, not with such stalwarts as Geras arrayed against us. But you have to start somewhere, no? And in return I ask for nothing unless we succeed.”

“I have not yet had an in-depth conversation with Aridatha on the matter,” Barholme commented, gazing out across the forest. “I believe she is avoiding me.”

“And I believe I can help you there. Let me talk to Lioska.” Zarya tilted her head, thinking. “You’re new here. You don’t know this clan like I do. There aren’t _many_ of us who enjoy summary execution, it’s true, but I’ll see what I can drum up – we do have troublemakers who enjoy strife for its own sake. We might appeal to Lailyn, Delemont, Moros … I can think of a few others who could be tricked into thinking this to their benefit. Wanderer might help with that, if it’s presented as a challenge to his ingenuity.”

Barholme looked at Zarya with great, empty eyes. “I do confess myself at somewhat of a loss as to how to proceed, short of … drastic measures. I appreciate your assistance, and I will commend you to our lord, the Arcanist.”

“And let me have Elain when you’re done with her?” Zarya asked, pointedly: she cared nothing for the gods’ regard.

“Of course.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ethereal image, a fleeting impression, featuring Elain and Frip; or, the answer to the question, “If Barholme does succeed in his quest to have Elain executed for the sin of shape-shifting, will Frip save her?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Distinctly _not_ canon. Call it a glimpse of a possible future.

Elain lay crumpled on the floor of the cage built just to hold her. Somehow, she was the clan’s first criminal, their first prisoner. Aridatha, never fond of the sentence, had given her a little comfort at least: her limbs were unbound, and the cage floor was soft, clean grass, shaded by the trees above through the long day she’d already lingered here. But glowing runes and sigils on the bars and the ground around it trapped her in dragon form – Barholme’s devising, though Bartos had helped, out of intellectual curiosity. That restriction chafed at Elain far more than any simple ropes ever could.

The imperial Cobalt slept curled around the cage, the runes’ light sparkling off his brilliant azure scales: her assigned guard. The concern was not so much that Elain would escape the cage as that a sympathetic clan-member might break her out, help her vanish into the endless woods. Other sentinels – Barholme, Zarya, Wanderer, Moros, all volunteers – watched the suspect dragons, those who had protested this decision too vocally. Geras, Luna, Nesita, Cypress – none of these friends could save Elain from her fate.

But someone could. There was one dragon in the clan whom not even Barholme, with all his eldritch magic, could restrain, and Elain still held out hope that she might receive aid from that quarter.

And that hope leapt in her breast when, deep into the night, she turned her head to find Frip sitting inside the cage with her, watching her, rendered ghostly by her white robes.

“Frip!” Elain said, her voice almost breaking with relief. Then she remembered Cobalt’s presence, and lowered her voice to a whisper – though surely not even the clan’s largest member had a prayer of stopping Frip. “You came to rescue me, right?”

“’Fraid not,” Frip said, and continued as Elain stared at her in shock. “I’m just here to talk. Don’t worry about waking Coby, by the way – neither he nor his little friend will bother us tonight.”

“What … what do you mean?” Elain finally managed, after a long silence in which she struggled to meet Frip’s eyes or read the nocturne’s expression – all hidden by the shadows of her hood and the night. “You could get me out of here easily. Don’t you always say that you can do anything?”

“Oh, I can. But I’m not going to do anything.” Frip shrugged, the motion rippling through her silvery wings and sending kaleidoscopic lights reflecting off them. “I never had any intention of interfering in this.”

“But … why not? I _know_ you don’t agree with Barholme. I … I thought you liked me. Cared about me, even.” The dancing. The embraces. The smiles. The, perhaps, flirting. Despite all the stories from others and her own personal observations of Frip’s capricious nature, Elain had dared to believe that it all meant something.

“Yes, I can see how you might have gotten that impression.” But not to Frip, apparently. In fact, the nocturne smiled now, a thin and knowing smile that spread over only half her face. “This is all hypothetical, anyway.”

“My impending death is ‘hypothetical’?” Elain found herself feeling very cold. Suddenly a gate slammed shut over every part of her that might have been hurt by Frip’s callous indifference, her near-betrayal – she certainly hadn’t promised Elain anything, but gods, had she _implied._ Now Elain felt nothing at it, not surprise, not fear, not anger. It was a rather new sensation for such a typically tumultuous dragon; Elain was used to taking refuge in rage when the world turned against her. But now there was nothing, and then after dawn tomorrow there would be truly nothing, not even cold.

“Yes.” Frip leaned closer to Elain, close enough that the skydancer saw her eyes gleaming under her hood, empty as ever. A brief temptation to bite or claw at Frip crossed Elain’s mind, but why bother? It wouldn’t get her out of here; knowing Frip, it wouldn’t even land, one way or another. “None of this is real, Elain, and this is even less real than the rest – a further remove from actuality, a yet deeper fantasy.”

“It feels real.” Elain’s voice came out sounding much smaller and more pathetic than she intended. Where was her newfound chill, her armor against fear and pain? She didn’t care what was going to happen – she couldn’t, couldn’t give Barholme and his backers the satisfaction. She clung as she always had to two pieces of meager comfort: that she was right, morally, and the unspooling thread of time would eventually show her so; and that there was nothing she could do about the situation and thus no point fretting about it.

“You don’t know what ‘real’ is,” Frip said, but her tone wasn’t critical: she sounded rather sympathetic instead, almost kind. The nocturne laid her talons over one of Elain’s paws, forestalling Elain’s incredulous, slightly outraged response. “That’s not an insult. It’s a fact of your existence, or lack thereof.”

“So it’s fine for me to burn at the stake?” A slight exaggeration, that: while popular pressure had forced Aridatha to grant Elain’s execution, she had turned down the more barbaric methods Barholme suggested – and Zarya had not-so-mysteriously opposed anything that might damage her body. That thought nearly broke through Elain’s unemotional armor, a squick of disgust turning her stomach as she thought about Zarya carrying off her lifeless form, employing claws and knives and chemicals in her gruesomely delicate work …

“Best not to think about that,” Frip said, but Elain continued down that path anyway, because that wasn’t the worst – Zarya had made other offers, a method of execution that even Barholme might flinch at …

Frip squeezed Elain’s claws, bringing her back to the present. “Leave it, Elain. This moment is a future that probably won’t come to pass, and that’s even less likely.”

“It’s coming to pass _now_ ,” Elain said, dry-mouthed. “Unless you’re going to do something.”

“I am no actor on this stage.” Frip released Elain’s paw and turned away, gazing at the patterns of blue lights in Cobalt’s scales, a miniature galaxy. “I suppose I am only here to emphasize my lack of involvement. An unnecessary display, but someone will enjoy it.”

“Are we being watched?”

“We only exist when we are watched.” Frip’s head swiveled back to Elain, a satisfied smile crossing her face. “See you soon, dove.”

Too suddenly for Elain to recoil, Frip bobbed forward and kissed the tip of her snout. And then she was gone.

* * *

Frip sat in her quarters, curled up on a pillow, watching Elain hop between the cliff-hanging harpy huts in the golden light of afternoon. She turned her head.

“Well, I’m not sure what the point of _that_ was. A bit voyeuristic, don’t you think?”

The nocturne sighed, resting her head in her claws, and closed her eyes.

“That’s all, folks. And now, back to your regularly scheduled programming.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having joined Barholme in his attempt to have Elain executed for the sin of shape-shifting, Zarya attempts to recruit Wanderer to the cause, appealing to his love of tricking others.

“Do you still claim to be clever, Ruffles?”

Wanderer’s initial instinct was to snarl at Zarya, but he held that reaction back, not wanting to give the mirror anything to work with until he knew what she wanted, what she was trying to get by insulting him. And Zarya had to have a reason for bothering him, because she wasn’t stupid, she didn’t have any current feud with him – at least not _yet_ – and she derived plenty of amusement from her own gruesome and solitary pursuits without riling up others.

So instead of bristling Wanderer smiled and said, “Sometimes. Do you?”

“Quite,” Zarya said, grinning. “I’m here to offer you a chance to prove that claim – and maybe have a little fun while you’re at it.”

Wanderer gave Zarya a skeptical look. “Forgive me if proving myself to you is not my first priority, and if I do not share your sense of fun.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to get your claws dirty.” Zarya’s head tilted. “At least, not literally … I hope you’re not developing a conscience. I’ve a game going that might prove a challenge even for your skillful maneuvering.”

Wanderer rearranged himself more comfortably on his cushions: Zarya had sought him out in his own quarters, a luxuriously-appointed and extensively fleecy space on the second floor of a tree by the river. He shared the structure with Bartos – an arrangement he liked – and Zura, whom he cared for less. “I’m listening.”

“You’re aware of Barholme and Elain’s little snit, yes?”

Wanderer chuckled: “snit” was not how he would have chosen to describe that potentially deadly disagreement. “I could hardly avoid knowing about it, with how that chicken hollers.”

“Well, here’s your chance to restore peace and quiet to your home.” Zarya smiled, showing a rather excessive number of teeth. “You may not have noticed, but Aridatha is not exactly inclined to grant Barholme’s request and rid us of Elain. And the rest of the clan is hardly rushing to throw the first stone, either. It would be rather difficult to convince them of the necessity of Elain’s death, wouldn’t it?”

Wanderer sat very still for a moment, processing this. With uncharacteristic gravity and bluntness, he said, “You want me to help you kill Elain? Why? Why should I, and why do you care?”

“It would be quite a way to prove your cunn – ”

“Don’t,” Wanderer cut in. He tilted his head and smirked at Zarya. “Don’t bother stroking or poking my ego – I’m hardly going to fall for the same tricks I use, especially when I do them better.”

Zarya shrugged. “Fair enough. Then I suppose I must admit that there’s not really anything in it for you except entertainment, and simply throw myself upon your mercy.”

Refreshing honesty – though it was, of course, only another form of manipulation. Wanderer propped his head up in his claws. “You still haven’t told me what you get out of this.”

He wasn’t about to get involved with Zarya until he knew what her game was.

“I seek only the advancement of science,” Zarya said, a meaningless platitude. Wanderer waited, and Zarya’s smile broadened. “I want to understand the physiology of a shape-shifter. And you know how I come to understand physiology, don’t you?”

“Ah.” The idea of what exactly Zarya meant, the precise fate she intended for Elain, danced around the edge of Wanderer’s awareness, but he refused to let himself seize on it. He would rather not know, or at least rather not think about it. And that was what she wanted him to aid and abet? Did she think he had no conscience at all?

Well … she wouldn’t exactly be _wrong_. And it _would_ be a challenge, to turn the clan against Elain – it went to heavily against their inclinations, in almost all cases. To have this bunch of peaceful layabouts baying for the skydancer’s blood would certainly prove Wanderer a master manipulator, an utter master of his craft. See Moros try to do that. Plus, he could do without the noise, and he was bored.

“I thought you could start with La – ” Zarya began.

“Don’t,” Wanderer snapped. “Do I come to your lab and tell you how to split ribs?”

Normally, he’d make a more temperate, diplomatic response – but Zarya didn’t seem bothered. She smiled. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“I’ll think about it.” Wandered resettled himself on his cushion, narrowing his eyes as if he prepared to return to his nap. “I might sniff around, see how the wind’s blowing.”

“And if it blows away from us – from myself and Barholme – you’ll go running to Aridatha to tell her about my evil attempt to seduce you from the path of virtue?” Zarya’s smirk suggested that she didn’t exactly feel threatened.

Wanderer pretended to consider the question. “I think Acrux would enjoy that information more, don’t you?”

Finally, Zarya’s mouth turned down – though only briefly. “You’re right, at that. You know he can’t do anything with it, though. I’m allowed to express my opinions, including the opinion that much could be learned from Elain’s corpse … or pre-corpse.”

Wanderer wrinkled his nose: he hadn’t needed or wanted that last detail about Zarya’s plans for the shape-shifter. “I’ll have some little chats about it. Now, if you don’t mind, you stink of formaldehyde, and it’s making me sick.”

With another sharp-toothed grin – and not a word of leave-taking – Zarya departed, and Wanderer curled up in the sun to lounge and think.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Acrux offers Elain his aid in her ongoing dispute with Barholme. Barholme currently seeks Elain’s execution for the sin of shape-shifting, and Zarya has recently joined him in this endeavor.

“Have you heard that Zarya is campaigning against you?”

Elain turned and tried not to jump when she saw the imperial looming over her. He’d approached so quietly … She felt like she should’ve recognized who this great pink-streaked colossus was, but she still didn’t know the clan very well, not beyond the members who impacted her life regularly – Geras, Barholme, Aridatha. _All dragons look the same, anyway_ : patently untrue as they were, the words had a bitter twist in Elain’s mind. Even Geras admitted that she could not always distinguish individuals among the beast-folk in her care.

“Who is Zarya?” Elain said.

“The female mirror.” The imperial settled down, curled around the section of fence where Elain stood, paws folded elegantly under his sinuous body. A cat fully as large as Elain was peeked out from between his wings and looked at her with a rather threatening interest. “Black scales, crown of bones, claws wrapped and bloody, always smells a little … off. Water eyes.”

“Ah.” Elain searched through her memory. This clan was nearly devoid of mirrors, and while bird skulls were a popular accessory, most of the dragons didn’t stoop to the level of wearing their blood on their sleeves. “I’ve seen her, but I’m not sure if we’ve ever spoken. Wait, no – she asked me something about the mechanics of shape-shifting once.”

“Did you answer?”

“I didn’t like her tone,” Elain said, sharply: she didn’t like this imperial’s tone either.

The imperial sighed and shifted his weight. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, Elain. Of course, I know who you are. I am Acrux. I would like to aid you, as I am neither fond of Zarya nor of the belief that your magical talents constitute a capital offense.”

 _Is everyone in this clan so wordy?_ Elain paused for a moment, thinking over her response: she was irked, but not irked enough to turn down aid when offered, especially considering how incredibly sinister Acrux had made his description of Zarya. “All right, and what do you intend to do about it?”

Acrux was silent for a moment, head tilted in thought, and Elain felt bitter amusement at the idea that she’d managed to stifle his verbosity. At last, he said, with quiet steel, “Whatever is necessary.”

Elain frowned at the imperial, wondering if he really meant that, and why a dragon she’d only just met would pledge himself to her cause like that. She didn’t know him from the Lightweaver herself …

“But I think the prevailing winds are with us,” Acrux said, a moving-on note in his tone, as if he himself didn’t want to acknowledge what he had just promised. “This is not a violent or unreasonable clan, or a dogmatic one. Barholme’s opinion is the outlier rather than the norm.”

“Is it,” Elain said: true, no one seemed that concerned by Barholme’s screeches of sin and filth, but until now nobody had been rushing to defend her either.

“Aridatha is a reasonable dragon.”

“Everybody says stuff like that, and yet nobody seems to actually end up talking to her,” Elain pointed out. She was growing tired of being told “bring it up with Aridatha” every time she had a problem, especially since she herself didn’t leave the familiars’ grounds and the clan leader never seemed to come there. To tell the truth, Elain wasn’t completely sure if she was _allowed_ to leave. She’d been brought into this clan as a prisoner, and no one had ever established any other status for her.

Acrux blinked, looking down at Elain with something like surprise. For a moment he was silent – _thank the gods_ – and then he said, “You make a good point. Delay earns us nothing; I’ll arrange a meeting with Aridatha posthaste. In the meantime – I live in the lean-to on the other side of the lair, if you ever need me.”

With that rather ominous offer – what would Elain need him for, exactly – Acrux took his leave. Elain watched him go, unsure what to think about him. What an odd dragon. At least he took the cat with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elain's feud with Barholme concludes in Chapter 5 and 6 of [Achzina's acceptance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13911744/chapters/32016015).


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Barholme’s exile, Cypress seeks aid from Elain in clearing up a lingering question, then asks her to teach him to shape-shift.

“Elain? Are you home?”

“In here,” Elain said, and watched as Cypress pushed his way into the room on the ridge that she called her own, amongst the miniature beastclan village in Clan Lukra’s lair.

While Elain’s home was large for a beastclan dwelling, it quickly grew cramped with Cypress inside: it’d been built to accommodate Elain’s own dragon form and no other. She became a harpy to give him more room, but she knew that wouldn’t last. Unlike Achzina, whose untroubled form always filled her with a burst of jealousy, Elain still struggled with her shape-shifting, and often couldn’t hold a form for more than twenty minutes or so. It was a burden that had weighed on her long before she’d come to Clan Lukra, and no doubt would continue to do so.

“I have some questions I’d like to ask you,” Cypress said.

“For the Chronicle?” A copy of the newspaper sat in the corner, rather rumpled from Elain’s reading. “I saw your article on Barholme.”

Cypress looked down. “Isildur made me take out a lot of the adjectives. But no, not for the Chronicle – well, not really. I was actually just wondering about something for myself. Well, a couple things.”

“What are they?” Elain saw no point in delaying.

“First – who do you think sent you that note? The one telling you about Barholme’s plans,” Cypress added, when something in Elain’s expression or lack of response made it clear that she didn’t know what he meant. It probably wasn’t her expression: Cypress didn’t know harpies well enough to have learned to read their faces, and she wore a mask, anyway.

“I don’t know. Some concerned citizen?” Even as the words came out of her mouth Elain knew they didn’t make sense. Clan Lukra had too few members – actual members, who were permitted in the Inner Sanctum at will, rather than pilgrims and guests – for such anonymous charity.

“How would they have known what Barholme was planning? He didn’t go around announcing it. Everyone I’ve asked denies knowing anything about it.”

“Who did you ask?”

“Talise, Ammanas, Lioska – she was offended, said she’d’ve stopped it if she’d known – Freya, Calana, Acrux – same deal, but he was less snappish – and a couple others.”

“Did you ask Frip?” Long before anyone had started throwing around the term “Oracle,” Frip had had her delicate claws in everything that went on in Lukra, no matter how unlikely it was that she should know about it. There was no doubt in Elain’s mind that Frip had been aware of Barholme’s plan; the question was whether she would have chosen to warn anyone, as she acted only on her own idiosyncratic whims.

“I tried, but I can’t find her.” A predictable response: Frip had a habit of mysteriously vanishing whenever someone tried to pin her down and get some real answers. Not that she was any more forthcoming when actually present, either.

“It’s odd that whoever it was wrote to you, too,” Cypress continued. “If they wanted to stop Barholme, they could’ve just gone directly to Lioska or Aridatha with what they knew.”

“I did my best to stop him,” Elain snapped, irked that Cypress thought her so ineffectual.

“I know, but you didn’t have the full clan behind you, like they would’ve. It really just ended up putting you in more danger.” Cypress tilted his head to look at Elain. “Why didn’t you tell anyone, by the way?”

“By the time I found the note, it was too late.” Elain felt herself starting to get defensive and didn’t resist it. Who was Cypress to question her actions like this? He hadn’t been there. He’d never been in any danger from Barholme.

“So you just rushed to the scene of the attack? What were you planning to do about it, exactly?”

“I don’t know!” Elain bristled, and as she did, she lost control over her harpy form and ballooned back into a skydancer, her unruly limbs shoving Cypress into the wall. “At least I did something!”

“All right, all right. I’m sorry.” Cypress straightened his hat, which had almost fallen off his head. “I’d still like to know who wrote that note, and why they sent it to you. Do you still have it?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll look for it.” Elain allowed her voice to imply when you leave. Even as she shifted back into a centaur, there wasn’t enough room for her to search her quarters with Cypress there. When she’d finished reading the note, she’d just cast it aside, too alarmed to pay attention to where it fell.

“Thanks. We might be able to identify the writing.”

Elain shrugged, still a bit annoyed with Cypress. She didn’t see why the note was such a big deal, anyway, especially now that Barholme was gone. Probably Frip had written it; unexplained phenomena in the clan usually ended up involving her. “Is that all, or is there something else I can help you with?”

Cypress blinked at Elain’s sharp tone. “Well, I did want to ask you … if you’d teach me how to shape-shift.”

Elain blinked. She certainly hadn’t expected that. For a moment it mollified her; it was the first time anyone in the clan had shown interest in her magic. And then the timing occurred to her, that Cypress hadn’t asked until after Barholme was gone – until he faced no potential threat for doing so – and her face turned sour. “Why don’t you ask Achzina? He’s better at it than I am.”

Cypress shrugged. “I figured I’d ask you first. Since you’ve been here longer and all.”

It would be nice to have more shape-shifters around, but Elain was still in a bad mood. “Why do you even want to learn?”

“I’m just curious,” Cypress said.

“You want to magically render your entire body into a new form, twisting your flesh and unspeakably altering every organ, out of curiosity?”

Cypress looked rather put out. “Well, when you say it like that …”

_I thought so._

“But I do want to learn,” Cypress continued, to Elain’s surprise. “Even if it’s, well, shall I say ‘unpleasant’?”

Part of Elain felt offended that he found shape-shifting unpleasant, even though she herself had just done her best to make it sound so. The rest of her was impressed.

“Fine,” she said at last, reluctantly. “I’ll teach you. But not right now. Meet me outside the herb garden tomorrow, an hour before lunch.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good. Now please get out of my house.”


End file.
